“How’s your head?” I ask.
“I’ll live,” she says, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You had an accident already. I’m worried you might have a concussion.”
“I’m okay.”
“I have a first aid kit,” I say, my thumb stroking the skin beside the wound. “I can help clean that up.”
She swallows, her gaze dropping to my chest before meeting my eyes again. “I’d rather see Liam first.”
I study her face, seeing the determination there, the stubborn set of her jaw. She’s not going to take no for an answer.
“Let me clean you up first,” I say, compromising. “Then I’ll take you to see him.”
She hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
“Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the chair in front of my desk.
She sits, her hands clasped in her lap, her fingers twiddling nervously. I watch her for a moment, struck by how vulnerable she looks, yet how strong at the same time.
I turn to the cabinet behind my desk and start rummaging through it, looking for the first aid kit. The office is quiet except for the rustle of bandages.
“Found it,” I say, pulling out a small white box with a red cross on it.
I turn back to Millie, opening the kit and taking out antiseptic wipes, bandages, and medical tape. I kneel in front of her, my knees protesting the movement.
“This might sting a little,” I warn, opening an antiseptic wipe.
She nods, her eyes fixed on mine.
I gently clean the wound, careful not to press too hard. She hisses in pain but doesn’t pull away. I can feel her breath on my face. Her scent surrounds me, intoxicating and distracting.
“It’s not too deep,” I say, my voice low. “Shouldn’t need stitches.”
She nods again, her gaze unwavering.
I finish cleaning the wound and apply a bandage, my fingers brushing against her skin. The contact sends a jolt through me, a spark of awareness that I immediately push down. Now is not the time.
“There,” I say, sitting back on my heels. “All done.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, her fingers touching the bandage.
I stand up, putting the first aid kit away. “Alright. Let’s go see your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she says, a little too quickly.
I raise an eyebrow but don’t comment. “Right. Let’s go see your friend, then.”
I lead her out of the office and down the hall, my mind racing. This day just keeps getting more complicated.
We stop outside the interrogation room where Liam is being held. Through the small window in the door, I can see him sitting at the metal table, his head in his hands. He looks up as we approach, his expression a mixture of relief and worry.
“Millie,” he says, his voice muffled by the door. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says, her hand pressed against the glass. “Are you?”
“I’m fine,” he replies, though he looks anything but. There’s a bruise forming on his jaw, and his knuckles are raw and swollen. The ice pack I gave him earlier is tossed in the corner of the room.
